Inside Tracy Anderson's First Class For Men

"Should I eat this cupcake?" There are almost always cupcakes here at Cosmopolitan.com headquarters. That's not hyperbole for the sake of this story: baked goods are a mainstay. But today I'm going to a new workout class by Tracy Anderson; the first one designed specifically for men. Everyone in the office encourages me to eat the cupcake.

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Before this, I knew who Tracy Anderson was. I knew she was a Big Deal amongst women, especially via her DVD series. She's a personal trainer with many famous clients, but has only recently started training men. She's only just put together a new workout routine, available at her studios with a handful of slots, specifically designed for men.

I leave the office 20 minutes early because I have a superpower for walking into these kinds of classes late, and this class is going to be uncomfortable enough. I don't do workout classes. Like a lot of guys, I'm perfectly content lifting weights and doing cardio. I don't really like yoga, and I think the "hot" part of "hot yoga" is 21st century snake oil: of course you're going to feel like you worked out when the room is 110 degrees. Also: I'm not in what I would consider to be good shape right now.

I somehow still manage to walk in a few minutes late. I wind up changing in one of the bathrooms since Tracy Anderson's studios don't have men's locker rooms. Crouching next to the toilet frantically trying to tie my shoelaces, I hope I can sneak in while everyone is still warming up. Instead, the class is already going nuts with a dance/workout hybrid as I shuffle through the doorway. I squeeze into a corner near the front of the room. The other Tracy Anderson victims are all men, save for one confused woman. But these aren't lithe, muscular athletes decked out in form fitting workout gear. They're a bunch of dudes wearing basketball shorts that also probably double as pajamas, struggling to keep up with the ripped lady instructor.

What everyone was struggling to keep up with was a lot of aerobics involving wrist and ankle weights, with some box stepping and resistance bands mixed in. I feel silly doing most of it, even (or maybe especially) when we do bicep curls with light weights and a bit of that dance aerobic flourish to them. Despite the fact that it's almost all men in the room, I still can't shake the feeling that I'm following along to one of my mom's workout VHS tapes on fast forward. The massive aforementioned cupcake I ate does not affect me.

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The teacher (the only person in the group dressed like she belongs here) makes sure the whole thing follows the rhythm of a carefully curated bro-rap playlist — basically all of Yeezus with some Eminem thrown in for good measure. The music is, incidentally, the only traditionally manly thing about this whole experience. The few times she does talk — usually just to make sure the class finishes their last ten reps together, because dudes love solidarity — it's tough to hear her voice over the na-na-as of "Black Skinhead." By the end we're a roomful of sweaty bros, now confused about our manhood.

In retrospect, I do understand the appeal of the Tracy Anderson Method better now. I still feel like it didn't quite shake the ladies aerobics class vibe, but it was fun, and I'm man enough to admit it was still a bit of a workout, even if not an ideal one. No aspect, including the music (I prefer to crank The Blood Brothers or Death From Above 1979 when working out), was especially motivating. Men, in my experience, are natural workout lone wolves. We don't want to feel like we're in da club when we workout, and we don't want to, at any point, cheer in unison. Tracy Anderson's male initiative is not going to change that any time soon.

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